The Crossing, Anysia Eaton [snow like ashes TXT] 📗

The Crossing


0330 hours. The boat was a wretched black with rust climbing up the edges. It creaked as each person stepped on. Sheets of metal bolted together formed our only protection from the freezing water of the crossing. We set off. The boat bashed its way through the ice chilled water sending splashes of water on to the top of us, sending shivers down our spines. The thumping waves rythmed with my thumping heart. Creating a beat. Counting the minutes till H-Hour, the hour that the boat landed and Operation Overlord began.
The only thing we could see over the tall, enclosing walls of the boat was the pitch black night turning into the blood red sky, the icy breeze kissing our ruddy cheeks and attempting to crawl down our necks, freezing us in our tracks like frozen sardines in a tin.
The hours were ticking by, slowly, for every heart beat was like another thud of the war drum and for every bash of the waves was like another explosion of sand on a beach. The man in front reached for his container, shaking, shivering, teeth chattering, cowering under his helmet like a beetle under a stone. The retched smell of vomit contaminated the air like killer gas. Cross pendants were in constant use. People praying for forgiveness, mercy and protection from the killer bullets.
0430 hours. H-hour is almost upon us and every breath has become as hard as if a boulder had been placed on top of my lungs; every look I took away from my shaking hands came so blurred as if life had already been taken away. A pound in my head continued the constant losing battle of remaining calm. Shaking, shivering, teeth chattering, cowering under my helmet like a beetle under a stone.
My mind turned to my little girl. Her rosy red cheeks, her bouncy brown hair, her shameless figure. I had started another battle, no matter what I did I could not get the image of her without me out my mind, it always remained, like a stain on a plain white t-shirt. I tried over and over to convince myself I would see my little girl again and it would be a happy moment. A moment like when a mother tiger finds its lost pup. But the closer we got to H-Hour the more that happy moment slipped out from my mind.
I took a look at the others, the other brave men besides me in the great siege. They were as pale as me, some a jaundice colour with their coarse skin and shaking hands. Their heavy breaths made a deep chorus that echoed through the boat.
I could feel the straps of the weaponry and kit weighing down my back, like two hands were pulling me backwards on to the floor of the boat. It was impossible to move. We were trapped in the boat shoulder to shoulder. Crammed in the boat so every single man could fit in. Shaking, shivering, teeth chattering, cowering under our helmets like a beetle under a stone.
Flickering through my head was what I imagined it would be like. Dead bodies littering the beach, volcanoes of sand, and bullets of death being fired at you from up above the beach by the enemy. The wind thrusting its way through the middle of the battalion like a stone through a brick wall.
0530 hours. H-Hour was approaching, half an hour left till we began. The stench of sick increased as another person joined the many people who had already vomited over the person in front of them. Many people would be disgusted at the thought of having sick pouring down your back, but when it is put against what we were about to do, I would have the sick ten times over. We could start to hear the thumping of the big guns on top of the cliff thrusting shells at the waters edge and the very faint sounds of thousands of machine guns firing all at once creating an ensemble of sound. Time was drawing nearer; the ensemble of sounds was getting louder and louder as the last half an hour ticked by.
Ten… The thumping of the waves. Nine… The deep chorus of breathing. Eight… The wretched smell of vomit. Seven… The beating war drum. Six… The whispering prayers. Five… The sand volcanoes. Four… The pounding of big guns. Three… The boat slowing down. Two… The brackets on the boat snapping. One… The ramp opening.
CHARGE!!!
The flood of walking corpses leaked out of the boat and into the wine of the sea. One fibula in front of the other in a crowd of flesh. The volcanoes spurt lava over its victims. The big guns hitting its targets. A wave of killing darts breaking over us. Shaking, shivering, teeth chattering, cowering under our helmets like a beetles under a stone.

Publication Date: 05-17-2011

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